Home is Where You're Safest From the Storm
by Charming Gilmore Girl
Summary: One-shot, possible short story depending on feedback. My take on the return of Temperance Brennan and Christine Booth. Little of the case, some unavoidable angst, mostly fluffy happiness. First chapter deals with the initial reunion. Parallels are drawn to EitB and HitH. Also titled the Knock that Proceeds the Storm. Still working on it, but slightly stuck.
1. The Darkest Hours of the Night

_Hello! Thanks for giving me a chance. It's been a while since I wrote/published anything, and never anything for Bones. I hope you enjoy it, please let me know! If you like it and want me to continue, I'll be happy to acquisce, just let me know. Otherwise, this will remain in One-Shot never-to-be-seen-again Heaven.  
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_*Since posting, I went back and looked at it in the live view, and realized that none of my line breaks made it in. Now fixed :)  
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_None of these characters or quotes in italics are mine. Just borrowing them.  
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_Enjoy! (I'll stop talking now)  
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* * *

Home is Where You're Safest From the Storm_  
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_In the darkest moments before dawn a woman returns to her bed. What life is she leading? Is it the same life the woman was leading an hour ago? a day ago? a year ago? Who is this man? Do they lead separate lives or is it a single life shared?_

Creeping into the dark bedroom, Temperance Brennan pauses in the doorway. Images flash through her mind, of the last time she tiptoed into this man's bedroom. She remembers the pain, the fear, the grief, the _hope_ that she could see in his eyes then. She wonders if she will see that now.

Silently undressing down to her camisole and sweatpants, she places her hair tie on the nightstand. Glancing at the clock, she watches as it turns over to 4:48 in the morning. With an almost silent sigh, she slips between the covers on what was once, and she hopes still is, her side of the bed. Settling quickly after months spent in dingy hotels with creaky mattresses that groan with every move, her eyes adjust to focus on the sight she has been longing most to see over the seemingly endless months of summer.

* * *

After spending so much of his life on the alert against the danger of intruders in his bedroom, Seeley Booth's eyes snap open the moment his bedroom door whispers open. It crosses his mind that it may be Pelant, that he may be in danger, but within seconds he knows. He knows that there is no danger, that the person slipping into his bedroom means him no harm, (intentionally, at least), and instead represents safety. Security. Trust. _Home._For the first time in three months, though he has slept in this house almost every night, he is at home.

Opening his eyes, he sees the most beautiful sight for the sorest eyes he has ever experienced. She is a mess. Her hair is disheveled, her clothes both stained and too large for her small frame, she reeks of seedy motels and days spent traveling in a car. He has never seen her more stunning, but for the day their daughter was born.

Upon realizing that his eyes are open, the chocolate brown orbs aimed in her direction, she finally allows a sigh of relief, a gasp of fresh air to escape. First one, then another, until she is sobbing. Laying next to him, being close enough to touch, is enough to break down the feeble walls she had managed to construct during her absence. Just as she was that night now more than a year ago, she is the first to initiate contact; to seek comfort from him, where he so freely offered in the past. And he, in parallel with the actions of his past self on that same night that is currently haunting her, gives her all that she asks for. He comforts her in the way they both need, the way that was only newly discovered (allowed) after the death of an intern.

* * *

_A storm approaches. It is still over the horizon, but there is lightning in the air. Are either of them aware of the gathering turbulence? Can they feel the crackle of electricity in the wind, or are they aware of only the power that they generate between themselves? The first hint of this storm is not a thunderclap... it is a knock._

* * *

He is awakened by the pounding on his front door. With a groan, Booth closes his eyes even tighter, ignoring the noise in favor of the dream he had been yanked from. The pressure of her head on his chest, the warmth of her laying in his arms, the wetness on his chest from her tears, all feels so real. Resolving to ignore the artist pounding away on his front door (for it is her turn to babysit him today; he smirks to himself in the knowledge that they think they are fooling him by the schedule they keep in rotating constant company for him), he continues to think about his dream, and slowly begins to drift back to sleep.

Thanks in large part to his training and experience in the Army, the sound of the doorbell now being rung does not pull him from the hazy in between separating sleep and consciousness. With a concentrated effort, he is able to ignore the doorbell. What he cannot ignore, however, is the frustrated wail that arises due to the incessant ringing and knocking. It only takes him a few moments to realize that the crying is not the result of his imagination, and that it is coming from inside the house.

Springing up, his back immediately ramrod straight, (and vehemently protesting the sudden change in position), Seeley Booth opens his eyes for the first time that morning. Looking to his right, the veil between dream and reality is unceremoniously yanked up. Eyes widening in both disbelief and surprise, he is stunned to see the woman he loves (the most; not that there was ever truly any doubt for him, only denial). Just as he is able to force closed his jaw, their daughter's cries penetrate her sleep and bring the woman (finally) next to him to consciousness.

* * *

"Who's ringing the doorbell?"

From minutes after he saw her drive away, leaving him stranded at the church, he has obsessively imagined their first conversation upon her return. He plotted out so many possibilities on how the reunion would go; anger, relief, happiness, sadness, filled with sweeping declarations and accusations of betrayal. He never considered the first words she would say to him to be so… ordinary. (He does not count the things she said, _moaned_, in those early morning hours.)

Looking down into her sleep filled eyes, blinking up at him unfamiliarly, (since when were her eyes brown?) he registers the fact that though the pounding has stopped, the ringing and subsequent crying has not. With a sigh, he swings his feet out of bed, answering quietly on his way to the door, "Your best friend."

Biting back the instinct to say that such an occurrence would be impossible, since she was _looking_ at her best friend, she gives a nod in recognition. Climbing out of bed, she reaches for her robe on the back of the chair. Barely registering the fact that it is where she left it three months before, she heads straight for her still sobbing daughter.

* * *

As she enters the nursery and spots her progeny, she hears the front door open, which sparks immediate silence. Content to let her… partner? Boyfriend?... deal with her best female friend and surrogate sister, Brennan lifts her daughter out of the crib, and proceeds to prepare the baby for the day. Now that her daughter is silent but for occasional coos and giggles, she strains to hear what is occurring on the first floor. Hearing nothing, she resigns herself to having to go down and face Angela (and Booth) to know.

Her daughter in her arms, she stands at the top of the stairs and takes a deep breath. Realizing on some level that what most awaits her are questions, she tightens her grip on her baby. Once she begins to descend the stairs, there will be no turning back. There will be, _must be_, explanations, questions asked and answered, and likely tears shed. She will be forced to confess her whereabouts since she last left the house, and to explain the changes to her. The eyes, (she never should have slept with those contacts in; she knows her eyes will likely ache for days because of it), the color of her hair, (_why_ on _Earth_ had she ever let her father talk her into blonde?), and the weight loss.

With a last deep breath, and a quick inhale of her precious daughter's scent, (sunshine, happiness, baby powder, _innocence_), she begins her journey, knowing the hardest part of this unbearable ordeal is only just beginning.

* * *

_Hello, me again. :) First, thank you for reading to the end! It means a great deal to me, as I'm sure you yourself know. Second, the initial response I have received has encouraged me to continue this story, which I shall do. I have some vague ideas of where to go, but if there's anything you particularly want to see, let me know!  
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_Thank you for reading!_


	2. The Brightest Hours of the Day

_Welcome back! Thanks for joining us again, as Booth (and Angela) get their first real look at Brennan, now that she's back._

_*Not mine; the quote near the end was slightly tweaked, because I feel that just because we SAW that conversation once, does not mean that was the only occurrence.  
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_Home is Where You're Safest From the Storm  
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_Chapter 2  
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_Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know._

* * *

Tying his robe closed as he reaches the front door, he gives a mighty exhale before swinging the door open mid-knock, catching the artist on the other side by surprise. Though he barely opens the door, the determined woman pushes past him into the house.

"Where is she?" Eyes flashing, the artist is demanding, almost desperate. The look in her eye almost makes the agent give in and answer, but a long ago conversation, _What goes on between us is ours, Bones, _makes him silently push past her and head for the kitchen. Trailing behind him, Angela continues to fire out questions. Her interrogation goes almost unnoticed, however, as the coffee pot is started and breakfast food is pulled out.

"Booth!"

The shout of his name is what finally pulls him out of his thoughts and makes him face her across the island.

"Yes?" He asks, patient, pleasant, as though she had just walked in the door, as if she hadn't been peppering him with questions for the better part of five minutes. She begins the questioning again, and again he tunes out. For as soon as the upset, anxious, _worried_ best friend begins her questioning all over again, _they_ appear.

* * *

Arriving in the kitchen just like any other morning, like she had done dozens of times… _before_, wearing a robe and her bunny slippers and carrying her daughter on her hip. The nervousness she feels is not evident in her manner, and is subtle enough that her oblivious child does not pick up on it. Only he could, only _he_ can see the fear, the worry in her eyes.

She knows only all too well how quickly a reunion can go bad. Just because he was willing to comfort her, willing to allow her to sleep in their bed, it is different at night. In the dark, in the safety of their bed, it is easy to welcome her home. _Biological urges…_ her anthropologist's brain whispers.

Now in the light of day, she fears a different reaction. Gathering her courage, the strength she traded imperviousness for, she looks up, directly into his eyes. Despite the fact that her best friend is literally between them, (and so far blissfully unaware of her presence as she continues to prattle on), the moment their eyes meet she knows.

She is welcome.

Is wanted.

Loved.

But most importantly of all, she can read in his eyes (and only his; motherhood has not improved her inability to read anyone else's psychic cues), that she is forgiven.

She sighs in relief.

The noise catches her daughter's attention. Looking around from where she had been quietly playing with her mother's hair, the baby inspects her surroundings with interest, until her eyes land on her father. Giving him a curious look, she glances between her parents several times, before settling her gaze once again on her father.

As his tiny daughter scrutinizes him from the safety of her mother's arms, Booth can't help but smile at the look on the little girl's face. Calculating, analyzing; he'd seen it on her mother so many times before. _Before…_

Angela, suddenly noticing the smile, pauses mid-rant (interrogation). "What're you smiling at, Studly?" Before he can answer her, though, a very tiny voice behind her asks a question of its own; "Da?"

* * *

With a shriek of surprise, the artist spins around.

"Sweetie!" The word is gasped, and Angela immediately throws her arms around her best friend. Squeezing her tightly, the artist eventually pulls back enough that she is able to turn her attention to the baby. Christine, in response, clutches her mom a little closer, wary of the loud noise the strange woman had made.

Seeing the baby flinch slightly, Angela lets out a silent "aw!" at the adorable sight of the baby snuggling into her mother. Lowering her voice, Angela addressed the tiny girl. "Hi, sweetheart, did I scare you? I'm sorry, I'm just so happy to see you and your Mommy again." She smiles at the little girl, who grins shyly back before burying her head in Brennan's shoulder.

Turning her attention back to her best friend, Angela beams at her. "I really am glad to see you, Bren." She then freezes, as her brain processes several different thoughts and details. Finally, she settles on what she deems to be the most important. "Sweetie…" she trails off, in slight disbelief, "what happened to… to… you, I mean…" Finally, she settles on, "What the hell, Brennan?"

Looking down self-consciously, Brennan replied somewhat nervously, "I understand that I have experienced several somewhat drastic changes over the last several months, however I am not quite sure as to which facet of my changed appearance to which you are referring at this moment."

After taking a second to blink at her best friend while mentally translating Brennanese to English, she rolled her eyes at the woman feigning naiveté.

"The hair, Brennan. I'm talking about your _hair_."

"It's much too short, I know, and the bangs look ridiculous, but Max insisted that I change it so as to be less recognizable." The self-conscious scientist evades.

Angela nods. "Oh yeah, makes sense. But, sweetie, why are you _blonde_?"

* * *

It is not until Angela asks her question that Booth finally takes a good long look at his... _girlfriend? Partner? Baby mama? Note to self, define relationship._

As he realizes what he is seeing, now that he is actually looking at her, he feels as though he has been sucker punched.

She is thin. Before she left, she'd been looking _good_. She'd lost some of the baby weight, and what was left then made her look amazing to him, though she had been self-deprecating, proclaiming he only liked… how had she put it? The long ago conversation comes back to him. _What you see is the result of the manifestation of your own virility, which fills you with a sense of pride and power. It's natural to confuse that with attraction_. Now, though, she was so skinny she looked sick. _Gaunt_ was the descriptor his mind supplied.

Finally tearing his eyes away from her now-tiny waist, his eyes continue to travel up her body. He realizes that he had not imagined it the night before, nor been tricked by the darkness of the room; her eyes are now brown. Assuming them to be contacts, (he would _hope_ that Max would not force her to make permanent differences, as he had in his twenty years on the run), his face only turns to a look of horror when he realizes that she has dyed her hair.

_Blonde._

Instantly, his mind flashes through images of all the blondes that had come before this beautiful woman in his life. Rebecca, Tessa, Hannah. The girls in high school.

With the exception of Cam, throughout his life Seeley Booth has shown a strong preference towards blondes. Usually somewhat shorter than him, his preferred women generally had quick minds to make up for lack of height. Sweets would say it's his 'savior complex', or something, that was drawing him towards that type of woman. From the day he had first met Brennan, though, so many years ago in that lecture hall at American, he had noticed his tastes changing. Where before he would never have looked at a tall brunette, he suddenly realized one day that he hadn't given the cute blonde walking by a second glance, due to being unable to draw his eyes away from his partner.

In truth, though he could barely bring himself to admit it in his head, much less out loud, that was what had first drawn him to Hannah. (Sweets would say it was because the first time they met, he saved her life.) She was the exact opposite of Brennan. Open, fun, funny, current on pop culture… She could match him barb for barb, step for step… _See?_ He would tell himself, lying awake in his bunk late at night, in the middle of the Afghani desert. Y_ou haven't changed; you still want what you've always wanted. Your tastes haven't changed. You got caught up in that surrogate relationship crap that Sweets was spouting. You're still you._

Gradually, of course, once he was home and back to living real life, he realized that he had been wrong; and he told his partner, his best friend, his _Bones_, the truth: that there is only one person you love the most. And for him, that person was the beautiful, genius, tall brunette that gave him a daughter.

Standing in front of her, mouth open in shock, surprise, _horror_, all he can say, all he do is ask a single, simple question.

"Why?"

* * *

_Ok, so that's the end of this installment. Please tune in in several days for the next chapter. I'd like to have each chapter revolve around a poignant quote or short conversation/exchange. I have several ideas, but would be happy to take suggestions._

_As I said in the last chapter, it's been a long time since I wrote or published. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated. Thanks!_


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